In the Middle of Nowhere
by SilverBlood666
Summary: [Untitled no more!] Greg's first case alone! Yay! Something's familiar about the case that he gets, and before he knows it, he's in trouble with a couple of guys that know him. Help is on the way, but will it be too late for our favorite little lab rat? H
1. Chapter 1

_**Untitled - Chapter One**_

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE:_** Yes, ANOTHER story. I know. I know. "Work on the other ones!" I know, shut up. CSI: fic. Yeehaw. Now, before all my fellow CSI: freaks rear up and attack me, I'm going to admit right now that I know nothing of CSI protocol, the machines that they use and how the body gets to the lab, whether other CSIs take cases after they go home for the night. BUT, it's my fan fic, and I say that the day shift was working on the cases before and now our favorite night shift gets them.

Something else… (Um, what was it…?) I dunno, but I'm sorry if I maul the CSI thing, but oh well.

**_NOTE:_** Anyone who can come up with a great title for this gets a cookie AND the first chapter dedicated to them! I run out of titles for my stuff and hate coming up with new ones. TELL ME IF YOU HAVE ONE IN YOUR REVIEW **_PLEASE_**!

**_DISCLAIMER:_** Now, if I owned CSI, don't you think that I would guest star as Greg's girlfriend? Lol. Nah, I don't own it. It belongs to Jerry Bruckhiemer. (sp?)

**_SUMMARY:_** Greg's first case alone! (Yay!) Something's familiar about the case that he gets, and before he knows it, he's in trouble. This takes place after Greg passes his field test. My fic so I say that the team is still together! (YAAY!)

* * *

"Somebody told me, you had a boyfriend, who looked like my girlfriend that I had in February of last year!" a young man sang, slightly off key and probably getting the words wrong.

He spun around in his cushy desk chair, jamming to his newest CD (the Killers) blaring while he waited for the printer to strop whirring.

"Yo, Greg-o!"

Greg Sanders smiled to himself when he heard his nickname.

Turning his music down just a bit, he spun to face the slightly older man standing in the doorway of his lab.

"Hey Nick," he answered cheerfully.

"You got my results?" he asked in his slightly Texan drawl.

The printer stopped and in one smooth motion, CSI Sanders had spun again, grabbed the paper and handed it to Nick, adding a few unnecessary flourishes.

"Nice," then he looked down at the paper. His eyes widened slightly, "Wow."

"Hmm?"

"Everything's normal."

"Isn't that a good thing?" asked Greg, turning back to his desk and making jotting something down in the notebook next to him.

"Dunno. Everything about the body says he was drugged, Greg. They guy OD'd."

"LSD, maybe?" he turned again. "In and out of your system in less than twenty minutes."

"Maybe… Thanks Greg," Nick turned and left the younger man's lab.

"No problem, bro," he called back.

Greg glanced at his watch: 11:45 pm. Fifteen minutes past his punch-out time.

"Time to go!" he sang, shutting off his stereo and putting it away.

He made a quick dash to his locker, grabbed his stuff and headed out to his car. Greg unlocked it, got in, started it and immediately blasted the radio. He waited for a minute while the car warmed up and was off.

**_

* * *

_**

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE:_** Short chapter, I know. Sorry. I'm going through this thing where when I can't think of anything else, I stop the chapter and start a new one. Anyway, REVIEW PLEASE! AND GET ME A TITLE! A COOKIE AND THREE CHAPTERS WILL BE DEDICATED TO YOU!

Love,

Jillian


	2. Chapter 2

_**Untitled – TWO**_

**_Author's Notes:_** Thanks, for the great title of the story! Lol. I guess you're right.

**_ALSO: READ 'STEALTH'! REVIEW ON IT! IT'LL GET REALLY GOOD!_**

Also, this is going to have A LOT to do with just Greg. As you can probably already tell, I have some odd obsession to hurt and torture my favorite characters… Just read my Inuyasha story "TORTURE', and you'll get the picture. Lmao.

Sorry for the wait, everyone!

**_Standard disclaimers apply…_** (:muttering: those f../ckers…)

**_WARNING:_** I have absolutely **_NO CLUE_** about CSI protocol, so please bear with me if these chapters suck. They will get a lot better when I get to hurt everyone. Yay! It's a little slow going, but please stick with me and review. (No need to point out my random run-ons though. I know…)

**_P.S._** Doesn't 'geeky' seem like a gross word? Ewwies… Another one is the word 'cluster'. :shudders: Ew.

**_!YAY!_** Excuse us, but Jillian is very hyper at the moment because it is 1:30 in the morning and she is very, very tired! Also, her A.D.H.D. isn't making it easy to do all this typing, so please bear with her!

Nigel (One of her other personalities) YAY!

(I hope this stays really big when I post it! It's 72!) R&R!

* * *

As Greg closed the freezer, he looked at his work schedule. Today was Thursday, right? Okay, so he had to go in tomorrow at five. 

"Night shift…" he muttered, tossing a TV dinner into the microwave. "Ugh… I hate these things…"

He chuckled to himself as he hit a few buttons to start the machine. Why was Greg having some crummy frozen meal when he was supposed to be a 'fantabulous' chef? Easy. A, it was too much hassle. B, he was dead on his feet.

Greg laughed again at the thought as he went into the living room. He sat down on the couch and flipped on FUSE. _(Fuse rocks!)_ And fell asleep after the first music video.

The next morning, Greg work up to the smell of stale chicken and a growling stomach.

Looking at his watch (3:37 pm) he got up and went through his morning routine. The routine generally consisted of a shower, a meal (normally breakfast or lunch) and he ran out the door with fifteen minutes to spare.

Today was no exception.

Greg grabbed his keys and jacket, left his apartment and went down to the parking lot, where he started his car and waited for it to warm up. (Yay for run-on sentences!)

* * *

At the lab, Grissom was handing out new cases. Today, Greg would be getting a case all his own. 

"Nick," the older man handed the Texan a file folder, "Your guy was found washed up in the Snake River ((A/N: That's a real river in Vegas. My daddy told me so!)), stab wound to the stomach, multiple contusions and lacerations. Two shots to the back of the head. The body's in the autopsy room."

The door creaked open, catching Nick, Sara (hate her now), Catherine (don't like her either), Warrick and Grissom's Attention. Greg walked in with a sheepish look on his face.

"That's three times this month you've been late," said Grissom.

Greg's face flushed very slightly and his eyes lowered.

"Caught by a train," he muttered, sitting down, "Sorry. I'll try to leave earlier tomorrow."

Everyone hid a smile while Grissom nodded.

"Make sure of that," he said, handing a case file to the newbie (1). "Your victim was found a few hours ago in an ally."

"Original," Greg muttered as he read.

The older man halted in his speech for a moment.

"Sorry, go on," said the former lab tech, grinning.

"Anyway, he was found in an ally, lacerations to the face and chest. Defensive wounds on hands and arms. Stab wound to the back and blunt force trauma to the head."

"Was that the cause?

"The body hasn't been identified yet, but it's in the autopsy room. Doctor Robbins is waiting for you."

"Cool."

Greg finished reading his file while his boss handed out the rest of the cases and summarized them.

They were dismissed. On his way out, Grissom called him back.

"Greg?"

Fearing some sort of discipline for being late again, he turned around to face his boss.

"Yeah?"

"Good luck on your first case."

* * *

(1) I hate that word. Its even stupider when some one says "Heh, noob!" It just makes you sound like a moron. I think, "Hey, you were new once too, dumbass, so knock it off! By the Gods, stupid people who say "noob" instead of "newbie" make me want to hurt them… Not just fictionally either. I mean in real life. My friend says "noob" and I want to smack him… 

**_Author's Note:_** Okay, it was short, but I was tired. And it seems like I spend more time on the notes than anything else. Wow, I's very tired…

:passes out on the keyboard and gets up a few minutes later, speaking with a British accent:

Hello again. This is Nigel. I hope you fine people weren't too bored. Don't get me wrong, Jillian is a good writer, but she sometimes gets carried away. She's lucky to have me around when she passes out like this. Ah well. As I said, it's very late right now, so I'm going to end this quickly. Please review! (And leave out all those bloody flames, or I'll be forced to do something very drastic!)

Until next time!  
Nigel (And Jillian)


	3. Chapter 3

**_Middle of Nowhere – Chapter Three_**

**_Author's Note:_ **Hey people, what's up? I really _hated_ this chapter because I had to really BS my way though it. I hate trying to talk my way through this sort of thing, so _please_ bear with me on this. I apologize for mauling this…

:sighs, then walks over to the closet, opens it and pulls out a bound and gagged Greg: Hey, I gotta make myself feel better _somehow_… (heheh)

**_Disclaimer:_** I own nothing… DAMN IT!

By the way, thanks to: **Honey Dipped Roses.**

:sighs: I just realized how much this fic is like all the other ones… :another sad sigh:

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"So'd you really get caught by a train?" asked Nick.

Greg stared at his friend with a look of disbelief.

"Yes! Why would I lie?" he replied.

"I was just curious, that's all. No need to get defensive," Nick grinned as the turned the corner and into the autopsy room.

Doctor Robbins and his assistant, David, were waiting for them.

"Hey guys," David greeted them cheerfully as he pulled the heart out of a body lying on a table nearby.

"Hi David," they replied.

Curiosity got the better of Greg and he walked over to the morgue assistant.

"What happened to this guy?" he asked, looking at the mauled Caucasian face.

"Attacked by an animal out in the woods nearby. From what I can tell so far, his heart just gave out from fear," David grinned up at Greg, "He was literally scared to death."

The newest CSI forced a smile as the heart landed on the scale with a splat and the needle quivered on a number. Greg looked away before it stopped.

"You get used to it," Doctor Robbins smiled. "I remember the first time I was in here. There was so much blood and the odor – jeeze – it smelled like the rotting meat in the fridge that you keep saying you'll throw away. It was really oozy. Blech."

By now, Greg had turned a delicate shade of green and wasn't appreciating Nick and David laughing at him.

"Oh, shut up," he gulped.

Nick sobered slightly and stopped laughing. There was still a big grin on his face.

"Anyway, Doc, can you tell us what happened to our vics?" he asked, meeting the doctor's eyes. (or 'Deadlights' today! Arrr!)

"Well," he started, motioning to the two bodies on separate tables, "This, is your guy, Nick. It appears he was stabbed, then shot in the head."

For a few minutes, Doctor Robbins and Nick hunched over the gigantic body, examining the stab wounds.

"Look at the entrance wounds," he said, "There's trace amounts of gunpowder, and right there…"-- the doctor pointed around the holes – "you can see the imprint of the muzzle of the gun. Bullets were through and through, but it looks like it could be a .22 caliber."

The continued to talk for another five minutes, then they both straightened up.

"Thanks, Doc," said Nick.

He walked past Greg, clapping him on the shoulder.

"See ya later, Greggo," he said.

"Later," he replied.

Greg's stomach turned when he saw his victim's head.

It was nothing. The back of it was virtually pulp. A mess of blood, skull fragments and brains. The front was okay, if not scratched up and mauled.

Greg gagged behind his hand, trying not to breathe in the putrid smell of decay and blood.

"Greg? You okay?" asked David, coming up behind him.

Not trusting himself to speak, Greg just nodded.

"If you're gonna be sick, there's a trashcan over in the corner," the assistant told him. "Breathe through your mouth."

The doctor looked like he wanted to say something, thought better of it and stayed quiet to avoid a new mess to clean up.

Greg nodded again, lowering his hand and fighting another urge to gag again.

"Okay, come over here," the coroner said, motioning to a spot next to him.

Taking a deep breath through his mouth as instructed, Greg took the place next to the older man.

"As you can probably tell, he was stabbed. Bruising around the entrances, lotta force." He explained, "As for the trauma to the head…" -- he moved to turn the body onto its side – "the tool marks are a weird zigzag pattern, nothing like I've ever seen before, and that's a first." He smiled at the last part.

The blood seeped onto the table in slow, thick drops. Evidently, the blood hadn't been all washed off yet. A dry heave worked its way through Greg's stomach, but he forced it down by clearing his throat gruffly.

Doctor Robbins paused for a moment, then continued.

"I found trace amounts of some kind of short, brown hair I sent to trace," he said, motioning towards a bowl sitting next to him on the table.

Indeed there was a few hairs in it. About an inch long each.

"Looks a little like a dog's hair…" Greg thought aloud.

He turned back to the body and looked at the smashed skull.

'_Blech…'_ was the only thought he had for a moment, then…

"Hey, what's this pink stuff here?" he asked, pointing at some pink fuzz around the edge of the wound.

The doctor leaned down close to the bloody mess to inspect what Greg saw.

"Well, I don't know," he shrugged after a minute or two. "But bag it and send it off to trace."

The newest CSI grabbed a small plastic bag and a set of tweezers off the counter. He bent down close to the victim's head and pulled an inch long fuzzy pink thread out of the hair. He coughed into the shoulder of his coat when it trialed a filament of sticky blood.

He stuck it in the bag, sealed it and got away from the messy table.

"Got it?"

Greg nodded.

"Okay. The defensive wounds in the palm of the hand are deep. This guy put up a good fight."

"Not good enough, apparently…" Greg said.

In another ten minutes, Greg found out all that he needed to know.

"Thanks, Doc," he said, "See you later, David."

He glanced at the assistant, who was now weighing a kidney.

"See ya, Greg."

The former lab tech left the morgue with a leaping stomach. He opened his case file again, rereading the summary. Something about it just nagged at him. It seemed so… familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Like a bad case of déjà vu. He shrugged it off and went out to the parking lot.

"All right. Off to the crime scene," he said to himself, unlocking his SUV.

He let the engine idle for a minute, threwitinto drive and sped off.

Twenty minutes later, Greg found himself at the body dump system. A very original alley set up off Maine Street just behind Joe's Family Restaurant.

It wasn't very hard to find though. The yellow tape marked all around it, not to mention the fact that there were cops guarding it.

Greg ducked under the tape to look around.

It was a dead end alleyway with a couple of dumpsters near the back, a chalk outline of the body. (complete with blood spray!)

Trash leaked out of the dumpsters, along with some other slimy, grey substance Greg didn't even _want_ to identify.

'_Eww,'_ he thought, raising the camera and snapping a photo of the giant trash holder.

He moved to the other side and took another picture.

As Greg looked around, he spotted a rusty-red stain on the corner of it, away from the rest of the blood pattern.

"Hmm…" He took a swab of it, got a small bottle of phenolphthalein (1) out of his kit and let a few drops fall onto the cotton tip.

It turned pink.

Greg too another sample, snapped a picture, and put everything back into his kit.

Over another hour of collecting possible evidence, Greg had acquired a partial thumbprint off the corner of the dumpster, a footprint next to where the body had been and various other samples.

The tune to one of Greg's favorite songs suddenly rang out. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone.

"Sanders," he answered, grinning. (he loved saying that)

"_Greg," _came Grissom's voice.

"Yeah?"

"_The body's been identified as one Ryan Allen. Residence is 239 Oakenshield Drive, apartment 3B," _his boss replied.

"'Kay, got it," said Greg, "Thanks."

He flipped the phone closed and stuck it back into his pocket.

Standing up, he took a deep breath of fresh air. Well, free air anyway. The air in the lab seemed fresher, but that wasn't the point!

"I love being out in the field," he sighed to himself.

Greg passed the dumpster, and stopped, thinking he had heard something.

A clanking sound came from the metal trash receptacle. He took a step towards it, letting his camera drop to dangle from the strap.

He lifted his arm to open the lid, wondering what was inside that he'd missed. His hand never touched it.

The lid burst open and a grungy man flew out, screaming.

"DON'T LET THE PENGUINS TAKE ME AGAIN!" (2) he shrieked.

Greg leapt back with a yell of surprise.

"What happened?" called one of the cops.

He didn't answer right away, as he was still watching the man pace back and forth over his crime scene muttering something about trees speaking to him.

The man walked over the crime scene a few more times before Greg leapt into action.

"Sir!" he called, walking to him. "Sir, you have to leave. This is a crime scene and you could be destroying evidence."

The man paid no attention to the younger man.

"Officers! Can I get a little help back here?" he called.

They were at his side in an instant.

"Can you get this guy out of here, please?" he asked.

The three cops took hold of the muttering man by the upper arms and led him away, ignoring his protests.

It took Greg a moment to realize he still had a hand over his wildly beating heart.

'_Just part of the job,'_ he thought, taking a deep, calming breath. Then he grinned, loving ever minute of it.

Greg glanced around one last time, picked his kit up and tossed it into the car.

Now it was time to go home.

To the victim's home…

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**_Notes:_**(1) phenolphthalein, I think is the bottle of liquid that reacts with blood and turns it pink. If it's not, then oh well. I was looking for it.

(2) THAT would be MY thing… lol. "One by one, the penguins steal my sanity…" I have an obsession with the stupid things…

Until next time, REVIEW!

JILLIAN


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four**_

**_Author's Note:_** Meh… Nothing much this time. Except to apologize in advance…

**_Disclaimer:_** I own nothing.

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He walked up the driveway of the two story ranch-style house. The outside was an ugly, tacky yellow.

'_Nice décor…'_ he thought, grinning.

He went in; the living room was the first room Greg processed.

The bloodstained brown carpet still seemed to glisten. It wasn't really though, as the stain had coagulated long ago.

'_Nice…'_ he thought.

* * *

It took the better part of the day for Greg to get the whole house processed, but when he was finished, Greg was loaded with all the evidence the place could possess.

There were a few lipstick prints he'd taken from a wine glass, various fibers found around where the victim had originally fallen, as well as partial fingerprints on the doorknob (which had been violently forced open).

He snapped a few more pictures put the camera away, gathered the last of his samples he had taken and put them all away into the kit.

Greg went outside and packed everything into the back of his SUV.

"Excuse me," someone behind him said.

Greg slammed the hatch down and turned around.

"Yeah?"

Before he could se who was speaking, Greg saw a fist flying at him out of the corner of his eye. It connected solidly, snapping his head around.

He lost his balance and staggered into the back of the SUV.

"OW!" he yelled, trying to blink away the black spots in his line of sight.

Greg raised his own fists in defense.

"What the hell was _that_ for!" he demanded.

There wasn't a verbal answer, just another solid blow, which his defense could do nothing against.

This one connected with his temple, blacking him out.

Greg fell to the ground, unconscious.

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**_Author's Notes:_** Okay, I am VERY sorry for how short that was… lol.

**_Thanks to:_**

MzPink – I'm glad you thought so.

Rowana Farrin – I haven't put my comments in the middle of the story for a long tim! Lol. Thanks for reading.

JanetMoonshine – lol. My friend was obsessed with monkeys.

People PLEASE! Read and review! I only got three!

Jillian


	5. Chapter 5

_**In the Middle of Nowhere – Chapter Five**_

**_Disclaimer:_** If I owned CSI, then it would have been Greg in the box, not Nick!

_as requested, Author's Notes will follow the end of this chapter_

* * *

"Ah… hell…" Greg opened his eyes.

For a moment, he panicked. He thought he was blind. All he could see was blackness. A partial thought crossed his mind, making him wonder if the blow to his temple had done something to his eyes.

Greg tried to move, but his feet knocked into something that wouldn't give, no matter how hard he pushed against it. He also found out that his hands were tied when he tried to reach up and rub the knot on his head.

Another thing he discovered while trying to thrash around, was the space he was currently occupying was a car trunk. A _moving_ car trunk. It hit something on whatever terrain they were traveling and the whole car bounced hard.

A tire iron or something smashed into Greg's back with a terrifying force. He gritted his teeth against the yell that was threatening to escape.

'_That's gonna leave a mark…_' he thought, exhaling sharply.

The car bounced again and it was all Greg could do to keep his head from bashing into the ceiling.

Where was he going, anyway? The question crossed his mind for the second time now. But 'why?' was the better one.

After a few minutes of trying to decide whether or not to let his captors know he was awake, he started yelling.

"Hey!" he shouted.

He kicked hard at the upper part of the trunk, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his back that made his eyes water.

"Hey! Let me out!" he continued at the top of his voice.

His screaming and yelling continued for the better part of an hour before he finally gave the useless tactic up.

Finally, Greg really began to realize the dangerous situation he was in.

He was tied up… in the trunk of an unknown car. Plus he was injured, although he couldn't tell the extent of his injuries yet.

Another thought crossed his mind.

"Oh… _shit!_ Did they get my phone!" he asked aloud softly, high pitched with alarm.

The question sent Greg into a frantic search. He thrust one of his bound hands into his coat pocket.

Nothing.

He started a swearing chant as he twisted impossible angles to get at his pockets.

'_Oh, hell,' _he thought, _'Please don't let them have found it!'_

Greg continued to beg silently as he searched.

He jammed one hand into his front pocket and nearly whooped with joy when he felt the warm plastic of his phone.

As Greg pulled the phone out of his pocket, one of the buttons caught on the edge of his pants' material, flooding his little prison with cool blue light. The screen read 5 pm.

He heaved a sigh of relief as he dialed 911.

_(("Wait a minute! I could be roaming!" he said, horrified, "I get free minutes after seven! I'll wait til then!" and he put the phone away.)) _(just kidding!)

The car suddenly ground to a halt and Greg heard the doors open. He quickly turned the ringer volume to vibrate and stuffed it back into his pocket, swearing all the while.

He adopted his former position and made it seem like he was still unconscious, knowing they'd never fall for it.

Greg could hear footsteps coming his way, accompanied by muffled voices. The next audible sound was that of a key being inserted into the trunk lock and the trunk clicking open. Greg's heart was thudding painfully inside his chest.

Sunlight flooded in, nearly blinding him. He could see two silhouettes above him.

"Wakey wakey, Sanders!" he couldn't tell which guy's spoken, but Greg immediately recognized it as the one that had said 'excuse me?' followed by darkness.

Feeling slightly braver now that the trunk was open, Greg, being the smartass he was, made a big show of stretching and yawning (as well as one could in an enclosed space, anyway).

"Cut it out," he said, "Can't you guys see I'm trying to sleep?"

He started to yawn again, but was stopped when one of them yanked him up out of the trunk.

"O_kay_, I'm up!" he said, blinking.

Now that Greg was roughly eye level with them, he could tell that they were both wearing ski masks, making it impossible to identify their faces.

So he let his CSI instincts take over. Looking at the two men, he could immediately tell that they were both very muscular, that he's have no chance in a match of strength. One was about two inches shorter than the other and he had 'bitch' tattooed across the knuckles of his right hand.

The taller one had no distinguishing marks, none that Greg could see, anyway. He looked around at his surroundings. He saw a medium sized cabin and noting the severe lack of civilization, he judged that that they were in the middle of nowhere.

'Tattoo' hauled him out of the trunk and made him stand up, ignoring the small squeak of pain Greg tried to suppress thanks to his injured back. Apparently, Greg had been in the trunk a while because his legs were still all pins and needles and he could barely stand upright.

So, his captors made due. Instead of Greg walking under his own power, they half dragged, half carried him towards the cabin. All the while, his cell phone vibrating in his pocket…

* * *

"How do you think Greg's doing?" asked Sara as she took a sample of semen from the bed sheet she was processing.

"I'm sure he's doing just fine," Nick replied.

They had finished analyzing their crime scene and were back at the lab.

"Yeah, but remember his field test?" Sara recalled, smiling, "The bathroom thing?"

The Texan grinned.

"Yeah, but he was pretty lucky that time," he said, "He'll do fine. Greg's a smart guy. Knowing him, he'll have the case cracked before the rest of us even manage to put a dent in ours."

The two laughed together and got back to work.

* * *

In his office, Gil Grissom had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that he just couldn't shrug off. That bothered him, not only for Greg's sake, but also because the senior CSI tended to ignore his hunches, saving that work for psychics.

Since he couldn't turn his back on the feeling this time, he decided to act on it. This one seemed different… An irrational fear for a certain ex-lab tech's well-being.

Against his will, Grissom took out his cell phone and hit '5' for Sander's cell phone.

The sick feeling grew each time the phone rang. Finally –

"_Hey, this is CSI Sanders!" (_here, Greg chuckled at this on the recording) _Man that sounds cool… Anyway, I can't answer my phone right this second. Leave a message!" heh … CSI Sanders…"_

'_He probably left his phone in the car again," _Grissom thought.

Desperate to put his unfounded fears to rest, Grissom left his office in search of anyone who might have had contact with Greg.

"Has anyone heard from Greg lately?" he asked, when he found everyone except Warrick and Catherine in the break room.

Nick, Sara, Archie, and various other people shook their heads negatively.

Hodges snorted.

"Why? Did Sanders screw it up already again?"

He laughed at his own joke obnoxiously but stopped and cleared his throat when he realized that no one else thought it was funny.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat again, "Sorry. Catherine and Warrick are in the shooting range if you wanna try them."

"Thanks," Grissom said, hinting at sarcasm to Hodges.

"You know…" Sara started, once their boss had left, "now that he mentions it, Greg _has_ been gone a long time. I would think that he'd at least call to check in, you know?"

Nick nodded his agreement, "You'd think, huh. Maybe we oughta call him."

Sara took a sip of her coffee and looked thoughtful.

"Then he'd think we were nagging," she replied, shrugging.

"But don't you think Grissom looked worried? That emote (emotion) just doesn't suit him," Archie interjected.

Everyone agreed, including Hodges (which was odd).

"So, what should we do?" asked Archie, "Are we going to wait, or do we form a random search party?"

No one spoke for a moment. Then Sara spoke up.

"I say one of us grabs Grissom and head over to the crime scene Greg was assigned."

"I agree," the voice that spoke next was Nick's.

"I do too," said Archie.

"Okay, so with that out of the way, the only thing left to decide is who's going," said Sara.

"How?"

Nick pulled a disposable BIC lighter out of his pocket.

"I know how…" he said, grinning slightly.

* * *

"Catherine! Warrick!" called Grissom, but they didn't hear him.

"FIRING TWO ON FOUR!" Warrick bellowed, aiming the gun at the target down the lane.

There was a loud crack that echoed in the room. The ballistics gel at the end of the row quivered violently on impact of the bullet.

The man fired off another shot, using a different gun. The second cube of gel shook.

"Catherine! Warrick!" the older man shouted again.

They looked over at him, evidently startled. The two of them took their head phones off.

"Yeah?" Catherine asked.

"Have either of you heard from Greg?" asked Grissom.

Warrick shook his head no.

"No, why?" Catherine countered.

"Because no one else has heard from him either," he turned to leave, calling over his shoulder, "Thanks guys."

* * *

Back in the break room, Sara and Archie were wallowing in defeat, as well as the stench of burnt hair and skin.

The Texan, however, contented himself with a small grin of victory.

His way of deciding was a test of willpower.

((_**WARNING:** (I'll do this now) If any of you try this and get injured and blame me, I'll hunt you down and destroy you! I warn you now because I can't afford to get sued again!))_

Nick had taken Archie's hand (voluntarily, of course) and formed a sort of cup between the Asian man and his own hand.

Then, making sure that no air could escape the cup, Nick pushed the lighter between the opening their thumbs made and slowly began to fill the space with the flammable gas.

"Ready?" he asked.

Archie nodded, feeling the need to at least try to help his fellow lab tech.

And Nick lit the fumes.

The two of them sat there for close to twenty seconds, gritting their teeth as the fire between them burned.

Finally, in a great show, Archie yanked his hand back, leaving a cool-looking trail of flames behind.

"You're out."

A middle-aged female lab tech Greg was friends with came forward next, then three other techs. Then it was Sara.

Nick didn't really have any competition other than Sara.

She sat down across from Nick and grabbed his lighter and his hand. Without a word, she began filling the space with lighter fluid gas. She lit it.

Neither of them made a sound. They kept their eyes locked on each other. Sara's fingers tensed and Nick was sure she was about to let go.

The fire between them fizzled out. A draw.

"Round two, Nicky," she said.

Again, their hands burned. The stanch of burning flesh, already pronounced, intensified. Everyone was holding their noses with whichever hand wasn't scorched.

Once more, Nick and Sara's fire went out. They were both sweating slightly and their hands ached.

During round three, Sara let out a soft cry and released Nick's hand, drawing back and leaving a stream of flames in midair.

Panting softly, Nick grinned.

"Guess I'll go find Grissom, huh?" he said.

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_** Okay, I know that was weird and that ALL of them would probably go, but this is MY story. :-P

Anyway, the lighter game: My friends and I do that when we can't decide something and it seemed like Nick would do that (outside work) Do it long enough and it smells SOOOOOOO bad and hurts like hell.

Therefore, the WARNING. Please don't try it. But if the urge of stupidity is proves too much for you… LEAVE ME AND MY STORY OUT OF IT.

_**Thanks to:**_

ChernobylGhost – Here's more!

dArkliTe-sPirit – lol. I like that! "What in the name of Greg Sanders happened!"

dumbandhappy – Thank you!

Creamy Chaos – Thanks very much. Non-OOC is something I strive for but doesn't always happen.

crystalpheonix – I love when that happens too. They didn't go into depth enough for me when the lab blew up. :-(

MzPink – Thanks!

Rowana Farrin – You know you love the cliffies!

InuIceWolf -- lol. Thanks.

Nicole101 – Maybe I'll update randomly… just to make you mad… lol

Joralie – Thanks! Here's more!

Elizabeth – Thanks a bunch!

_**Okay, here's the thing. This story is completed. It's all written out, I just need to type it all.**_

_**Keep the reviews coming please! I love every one of them!**_

_**Jillian**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**In the Middle of Nowhere – Chapter Six**_

**_DISCLAIMER:_** As usual… I won nothing. :sees lawyers glaring: Go on! Go! I said it! No arrests for youuuuu :grins as they grumble and stalk away: Ha...

* * *

"So, what do you want with me?" asked Greg, as his kidnappers tossed him roughly into a chair. 

"Shut up, boy," said the taller man, his voice muffled through the ski-mask.

'Bitch' went around behind Greg and tied him so that he couldn't get up.

"Nice place you got here," the young man observed, looking around, "Who works and who stays home with the children?"

Greg hadn't really meant to say the last part out loud, but, being him, it slipped. He fully expected to receive a fist in the face, but instead was surprised with the sound of laughter.

"He's funny!" the taller guy exclaimed.

The shorter guy, however, was _not_ amused. His eyes narrowed.

"Keep your mouth shut or you're never going to leave this place alive," he threatened.

Greg let his shoulders sag.

"Okay, no more comedy," he agreed, then he brightened, "So, what can I call you guys? You don't have to give me _real_ names, of course, but I need _something_ to tell you apart. 'Tall guy' and 'short guy' just seemed too… impersonal."

He finished with a boyish grin that defied his fears.

The taller guy spoke first.

"I'm… uh… Armando.(here Greg snorted good naturedly) Yeah! Armando!" he said, and Greg could see him grinning through the mouth-hole of the ski mask, "and this is…-- You wanna choose your own name?"

The shorted guy glared at his friend, then at his captive.

"Bob."

"Original… But I like it. Armando and Bob. Bob and Armando!" Greg's voice rose a few octaves higher in near hysteria, but he quickly steadied it and forced the fear away. "It's catchy!"

Armando's eyes crinkled in a grin. Bob just glared.

Greg looked around at his surroundings, his eyes stopping at a pile of books. He craned his neck at an impossible angle to read the spines. He let out a squeal when he read one in particular.

"HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF BLOOD PRINCE? How'd you get it! It's not supposed to come out until next week! You must have great connectios to get it THAT early!"

Before Armando could answer, Bob said, "We know someone."

"Ohhh… Can I read it? PLEASE can I read it? Not all of it, but some? Oh please oh please oh pl--!"

"_SHUT UP!"_ Bob yelled at him, "I told twice already, you hyperactive little creep!"

Greg's mouth dropped open to ask again, but it quickly snapped closed at the sight of a gun barrel pointed at his face.

"O-okay, okay just… just get the gun away from me," he stammered slightly, but his voice was steady. After that, Greg was silent and Bob stuck the gun back into the waistband of his pants.

Greg breathed a sigh of relief and cast his eyes longingly back onto the Harry Potter book. Anything to avoid looking at his kidnappers.

* * *

"Grissom!" Nick called down the corridor. 

The older man stopped and turned around.

"Do you want to go to Greg's crime scene?" the Texan asked, trying to ignore his aching hand.

Grissom blinked several times before answering.

"Yeah, that's where I was headed now."

"I'm coming too," was Nick's reply.

The younger man expected his boss to deny his request.

"Then let's go."

Nick gaped for a second, watching Grissom turn and walk out the door. Then he was jogging after him.

* * *

In the car, Grissom tried Greg's cell phone again. Still no answer. 

"Hell…" he muttered before starting the SUV.

* * *

He tried not to jump as his cell phone vibrated against his thigh again. That always managed to tickle him and he always jumped. This time was no exception. 

He did a wonderful job of suppressing it though. His leg twitched violently and he faked a decent coughing fit to cover up the soft buzzing noise.

Armando saw it.

"What was _that_?" he demanded.

With his heart pounding, Greg answered, "Have to go to the bathroom."

"Ah, okay," was all Armando said before standing up and tossing the book he was reading onto the chair he had been sitting in. An ugly, but comfortable looking orange squashy chair that was next to Greg's hard one.

Armando untied the ropes that held Greg's hands behind him.

"Come on," said the masked man, walking towards a dark hallway, "This way."

The former lab tech walked after Armand obediently. As much as he hated the idea of following after the bigger man into a dark place, he had to make some attempt to contact someone.

Armand stopped halfway down the hallway and opened a door.

"There you are," he said. "You'd better hurry before D-Bob comes back."

Greg walked in and started to close the door. It was stopped before it even came close.

"Nice try. It's staying open (he noted how Greg paled at this statement and misinterpreted it) but if you're THAT scared or whatever, then you can close the door until it hits my foot."

Greg forced a smile and nodded his thanks as he shut the door to Armando's foot. Then he swore under his breath.

Obviously Armando and Bob knew what they were doing to SOME extent.

So, now Greg had no choice to do what he said he needed to do.

When he finished, he zipped his pants and turned to wash his hands. He caught a look at himself in the mirror and had to stop to take in his appearance.

"Jesus, Sanders… You look like hell…" he muttered.

His face was the slightest shade of white (but it could have been the lights) and there was a five o'clock shadow just making an appearance on his jaw line.

Greg turned his head to see a gash on his temple. It had been cleaned and there was only a little blood on his collar.

'_So, they didn't want me too damaged,' _he thought, _'Or they didn't want me to look damaged anyway…'_

Greg turned around and lifted his shirt to examine his still aching back where the tire iron had got him.

"Ouch…" there was all the makings of a gigantic bruise. Already swelling a little (that would get bigger, he knew) and a deep purple spot in the middle. Looking closer, he saw there was a gash there as well. Blood still trickled out of it.

Apparently, they hadn't seen that. Or if they had, then they hadn't bothered cleaning that.

Greg lowered his shirt and his hand strayed to the pocket with the cell phone.

"Hurry up, Sanders," came Armando's voice from outside.

Greg sighed, wondering what would happen if he dialed Grissom's number and didn't speak if he answered. The call _could_ be traced, but Greg hadn't put his phone on silent mode. If he'd done that in the car trunk, then he would have tried it. Greg was certain if he did it now that Armando would hear the buttons beeping.

"I'm done. I'm coming," he said dejectedly.

He opened the door, wincing slightly. Armando looked at him, brown eyes piercing.

"Why'd you say ouch?" he asked.

"It was nothing," Greg replied, having no desire whatsoever for this man to look under his shirt and be touching him.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, old injury."

As Armando led Greg back to his chair and retied him (though not as tightly as before), he asked what the old injury was.

Greg's thoughts raced.

"Um, some football thing?" he tried.

Armando chuckled, seeing through the lie.

"If you don't wanna tell me, then don't. Just don't lie to me. You never played football in you're life. You're waaaaay to skinny."

Armando was just tying the last knot when Bob came back into the room.

"What were you doing?" he demanded suspiciously.

"He had to pee," was the only thing Armando said before returning to his own chair to continue reading.

Greg could have sworn that Bob growled once before slamming out of the room again. When he was gone –

"Watch out for him. He's not as nice as me."

Greg forced a weak smile and was silent.

* * *

Nick and Grissom got out of the car when they spotted Greg's silver SUV. The trunk was closed, but his kit was gone. The Texan saw smear of blood on the paint. He pointed out to Grissom, then took a swab of it using an IntegriSwab from his vest. 

He pulled it back into its little container and put it back where he found it.

"Nick," Grissom called him over, "What do you see?"

The Texan looked around at the grass and gravel in the driveway.

The gravel had unidentifiable footprints in it. In the center, there was a pair of drag marks. They led away from the SUV and to a set of burn out tracks.

"Signs of a struggle," he replied, his stomach clenching tightly. "Dent in Greg's car, blood smeared on it. Someone was hit solidly. The person fell to the ground and landed pretty hard. Drag marks indicate the person was pulled away and put into a different vehicle that peeled out."

"Good."

Nick glanced through the back window again, as if to make sure it was really Greg's car. He did a double take.

Snapping on a latex glove, Nick opened the trunk and retrieved a slip of folded paper. He unfolded it and read:

"_To Mister Gil Grissom and whichever loyal stooge is with him,  
__  
I have your CSI. Most likely, you will never see him again, no matter what you attempt. I have some knowledge of forensics and was very careful to leave no trace at all.  
__  
You see, I missed Greggy very much, despite how he managed to ruin my life without even leaving his comfy little chair.  
__  
I will not be accepting ransom, but know this: while you're standing here reading this, you're little friend is in lots of pain. He has only himself to thank for this. I just thought you might want to know where your guy is._

_Cheers!  
__A Friend_

_P.S. I wouldn't stand so close to the car if I were you…"_

Nick read this out loud, his stomach lurching. The typed words were laughing at him from the paper.

"'P.S. I wouldn't stand so close to the car if I were you…' What?"

"Nick…"

The younger man looked at his boss.

"RUN!"

Grissom grabbed Nick's arm and yanked him into a staggering run.

And the car exploded. A thunderous BOOM! rang out.

The power of the blast lifted Nick and Grissom right off the ground, sending them flying ten feet through the air.

The heat of the flames quickly melted their vests and singed their hair. Glass flew off in every direction and sharp bits of metal shot rocketed past them. They shot through the air, one catching Nick under the eye while another sliced through the skin above Grissom's left eyebrow.

They hit the ground hard and immediately covered their heads with their arms.

In another minute, everything seemed frozen. With the exception of the merrily crackling fire, all was silent.

They waited for a few seconds before rolling over onto their backs. Grissom blinked blood out of his eyes.

"All right. Nick?" he asked.

The Texan sat up and shook his head to clear it.

"Ow. Yeah. What about you?"

"Not good," he replied, "One of my guys was kidnapped."

* * *

Nick and Grissom walked through the doors of the Crime Lab looking blackened, burned and bloody. 

Sara, Catherine, and Warrick had been waiting for them to return. When they entered the break room, the unharmed CSIs leapt to their feet.

"What happened!" Catherine ran to them and examined the gashes the two had acquired.

"Greg was kidnapped," Nick pulled himself out of Catherine's grasp and threw the charred paper onto the table.

Sara snatched the paper up and held it so that she and Warrick could read it.

"'Not accepting ransom'?" the black man read, "You mean this is… revenge?"

* * *

**_AUTHOR'S NOTES:_** Okay, I loved this chapter. I thought it was great. Lots of science. Well… Tracking stuff anyway. I liked it. Review please! 

_**THANKS TO:**_

Nicole101 – Here's another chappie!

MzPink – I liked the lighter thing very much.

dumbandhappy – Thanks!

crystalpheonix – Lots more Greggy-angsty goodness comin' up! MWA HA HA HA!

daily – Oh no… No escape yet… :evil laugh: Not for a while yet. We have much, much, much more pain to go through… :snickers:

Korona – Thanks for the info about Greg. (although I didn't find anything like that on the TV Guide site.)

a writer of fics – I'm glad you like it, but I doubt there'll be fast updates. I've been doing pretty good so far, but a lot of the times, I just don't have the attention span to type these things out.

Kit – Thank you very much, that means a lot. When I find a story like what you've described, I do the same. I really appreciate what you said.

Hyperactive Forever – God, I _love_ the lighter thing! It just seemed so… Texas! I enjoy writing this and I'm going to be soooooo sad when it's done. :-( And… and… I LOVE COOKIES!

KEEP REVIEWING! AND THANKS!

Jillian


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter Seven -- Questioning and Pain**_

**_DISCLAIMER:_** I won nothing. :glares at lawyers: Go away:they grumble: Oh, wait, I DO own something:they stop with sharky looks on their faces: I own Bob and Armand:they grumble again and walk away:

**_NOTE:_** I'm just going to apologize for my spelling mistakes ahead of time. Microsoft Word crapped out about a month ago, and I depend on the spell checker. :-( Reviews at the end!

* * *

"Yes, that's what I'm thinking, Warrick," Grissom replied.

Catherine had also read the note and had sunk into a chair, going pale.

"Who do we know that Greg has put away? Who's been released or escaped?"

Grissom stood up.

"I don't know, but we'll get someone on it. In the meantime, Nick and I are going to go back."

"Back? What! No! You're going to get stitched up!" Catherine exclaimed, getting up and blocking the door. "You're going to the hospital!"

Grissom and Nick had been back for around a half hour already. In that time, they had shed there burn clothing, replaced them with a fresh set, washed their faces of the dirt and blackness from the explosion (discovering small cuts and bruises as they did so). They had told everyone what happened, all the while holding towels to their bleeding faces.

"Catherine, we don't have _time_." Grissom fought to keep his voice even and calm. "It's my fault he's out there. I ent him off -- alone -- and now it's my top priority to get him back alive."

Catherine's expression softened, but she didn't move.

Grissom took a deep breath, "Catherine, either get out of my way... or you're fired. I _really_ don't want to do that because I'm going to need your help -- all of you -- to find our lab tech."

This time, the blonde woman looked uncertain, but she moved aside. Slowly.

"Trust me," he said to her quietly, then to everyone else: "Okay people, put your current cases on the backburner. Finding Greg and bringing him home alive is the most important thing right now."

Everyone nodded determinely, and Grissom smiled, knowing that he had the best CSI team anyone could ask for.

* * *

"Honestly, Greg, I doubt you're going to make it out of here alive," Bob held a gun to the CSI's temple, apparently bored.

Greg was definatetly sure that 'Bob' was the one in charge of this operation.

"Do you even remember me, Sanders?" he demanded, kneeling in front of the chair.

Greg, not trusting his voice, just shook his head negatively. He felt the blood draining from his face and all the feeling seemed to have left his body. There was a new, murderous glint in Bob's eyes that terrified him.

Bob yanked his ski mask off and Greg instinctively closed his eyes.

"Look at me," Bob whispered in his ears.

Greg shook his head, keeping his eyes closed tightly.

"Look! Look at my face!" Bob demanded, pressing the gun barrel harder into the young man's temple.

"No!" Greg heard a sharp, metal 'CLiCk!' that told him the gun's safety was off and it was cocked.

"Bob, give it a rest, will you?" Armando's voice said, "Isn't it obvious that that the kid doesn't remember you?"

"He will. He remembers. He's just a coward!" Bob yelled, "Now, LOOK AT ME!"

This time, when Greg opened his mouth to yell 'NO!', the gun left his temple and he felt something cold and hard in his mouth, accompanied by the bitter taste of metal.

"Sanders," Bob's voice was menacingly calm, "if you do not open your eyes _right now_, I will put this bullet through your head and into your spinal cord."

At the words _right now_, Bob shoved the barrel of the gun to the back of Greg's throat, making him gag violently.

"Now... OPEN YOUR GODDAMN EYES!"

The gun was pushed in harder and Greg felt bile rising in his throat. Then it was gone, pressed against his forehead.

Slowly, Greg slit his eyes open. He could see Bob standing in front of him, obviously in enough anger to keep him from kneeling.

"Good boy, Greggy. Now, look up."

With a knot of cold fear in his lurching stomach, Greg raised his eyes, fighting every instinct to close them.

His eyes travelled upwards, resting first on a stubble-covered jaw, then on scarred, sunken-in cheeks, thin white lips, a crooked nose that looked ilike it had been broken more than onceand a high forehead with sweaty bangs covering part of it. The skin, overall, was a deep, uneven tan, marred by by pinkish pock-marks and other scars. Greg purposely skipped over the eyes, hoping Bob wouldn't notice.

He noticed.

Bob kneeled in front of the chair again, Greg looked just looked over his shoulder.

"Look at my eyes, Greg," he said softly.

"I already s-saw them."

"Look again."

Once more, Greg's eyes were drawn to Bob. His mind was scareming at him not to look, but he did anyway.

Bob's eyes were brown, or course. They were slightly sunken in, as if he hadn't got a lot of sleep in the past few weeks. The murdurous glint was still there.

"Good boy," Bob whispered, patting Greg's cheek and putting the gun back into the waistban of his jeans. Then he put his hand on Greg's shoulders. "Now, do you remember me?"

"I honestly d-don't remember you," he said slowly.

Obviously, these were the wrong words to say...

* * *

"Archie! Get on CODIS and look up anyone that Greg's evidence convicted!" Grissom called as he passed the man's lab. "We're looking for anyone that's been released or may have escaped!"

"On it!" Archie called back, his fingers already tapping out a series of complex commands on the keyboard.

"When you get a hit, you call me right away."

"Yes, sir!"

Grissom walked purposefully towards the door, holding a blood smeared towle to his forehead. Behind him followed Nick, also pressing a towel to his face, and Sara following too.

As they neared the parking lot door, Ecklie could be seen blocking it.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded, studying Gil and Nick's bruised, cut and bleeding faces.

"Crime scene."

Ecklie glared at the senior CSI, he opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted.

"Look Ecklie, you can threaten me with unemployment later. One of my guys was kidnapped and I made it a top priority case. I have more important things to do right now than stand here and argue with you."

And Grissom shoved past him, walking out the door.

"Hey Grissom!"

Gil turned around as he unlocked his car. He saw Ecklie standing in the doorway.

"Good luck!" he yelled.

Grissom smirked, nodded his thanks and started the car.

"And Gil!"

Grissom turned again.

"If you don't bring Sanders back alive, consider yourself fired!" Ecklie grinned and went back inside.

"Whoa..." breathed Sara, "That was almost a good mood for him..."

And they sped off to Greg's crime scene.

* * *

**_AUTHOR'S NOTES:_** Don't forget to review! 


	8. Chapter 8

_**In the Middle of Nowhere -- Chapter Eight**_

**_Author's Notes_**: slaps self Bad author! Bad! Bad:slaps again: I need to update more often! I get to this point and stop! Answer the reviewers, Author's Notes, and the Disclaimer. Then I stop! (BtW, GO SEE BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN!)

_**Disclaimer**_: I own nothing. If I did, it woulda been Greg-in-the-box, not Nick-in-the-box!

_**Thanks to:**_

SzmandaFreak746: OMFG, I fucking love you! YAY FOR GREG BEING THE VICTIM!

Jake Young Thinker: Jakie, Jakie, Jakie... I thought you read the whole thing! The OD'd victim isn't really a big part of the story! lol. Thanks for your review and all that help on Blood Oath! (Even though I never post it anymore...)

Nicole101: NEVER FORGET! THE ALAMO:twitches and falls over:

This-is-a-pen-name: I are glad you is enjoying the story so muchly!

Lady-of-the-Rings: WHOOT! LORD OF THE RINGS ROCKS MY FREAKIN' SOCKS! WE LOVES IT AND WE LOVES YOU! WHOOT! WHOOOOOT:hisses: No! We hatessss it! And we hatesssss the Lady-of-the-Ringsssss! We hatesss it with ever fiber of our being:slaps se;f: Shut up and answer the next review!

doyoufeellikeyourfallingdown: Hiya Hilary! Nice to meet you too! I'm happy that you're engoying the story! (:menacingly: You are enjoying it... aren't you?)

karmine: Wow... Thank you very, very, very much. Nothing pleases me more than to know someone is enjoying this story so much!

ENJOY AND REVIEW PLEASE! (this was 19 pages, so do it! lol)

* * *

Back in the cabin, Greg was now the proud owner of a black eye, a cut and swollen bottom lip, a bloody nose, and a couple of cracked and broken ribs.

He leaned over in his chair as far has he could, gasping for air. Ever since Greg confessed that he really didn't remember Bob, he had been subjected to the worst beatings of his life. Every time the shorter man passed Greg by, he'd pummel him for a minute or so and then disappear again.

"Should have just said yes," Armando said, not taking his eyes off the book he was reading.

The newest CSI looked up, still panting from his most recent ordeal.

"How can you just sit there and watch this happen?" he asked hoarsely.

"Not watching," Armando raised his book and gave it a small shake, "reading."

Greg let out a soft groan and let his head hangat his chest again.

"I'll give you a hint as to where you know him from, okay?"

"Anything," Greg mumbled.

"Okay," Armand put his book down and sat down on the floor in front of him, "think back to the case you were supposed to be working on now. It's similar to another one that you worked on, correct?"

"I think so..."

"You managed to process the evidence, and then it was used to convict the killer and put the person away."

"You're doing a great job describing something I do every day," came Greg's sarcastic reply.

"Wow," Armando widened his eyes. "For someone so smart, you sure are dense."

"Are you going to help me, or not? Just get to the point," the CSI grunted as a broken rib poked at his lung. He shifted slightly to relieve the pressure, but could only let out a hiss when it did nothing.

Armando drew back his arm and slapped Greg sharply across the face, The CSI's head jerked to one side and then fell back to its original position.

"Do you want to get out of here, or not?" he demanded, taking a handful of hair and forcing him to meet his eyes.

"Yes."

"Then shut up and pay attention."

Armando released his hair, but Greg continued to hold his head up.

"That case from two and a half years ago is exactly like this one. The convict escaped a couple of weeks ago and tracked you down. He killed a person, making it easy enough so that your boss would give it to you."

"Out of curiosity, why are you helping me?" Greg asked.

"To be honest, I believe if someone is going to die, then they have a right to know why." he replied simply.

"Oh, okay," he sighed. So he was going to die anyway...

"Anyway, Da -- sorry, Bob wants revenge on you. You put him behind bars and ruined his life without leaving your 'comfy little chair', as he so fondly puts it."

"Great, so a psyco's been stalking me just because he got what was coming to him," Greg murmured to himself.

"I have no idea what he plans to do with you when you tell him what he wants to hear. I don't know anything at this point anymore. Bob just needed help get you and a place to keep you. After this -- "

"What the fuck are you telling him?"

Bob walked through the door.

"Shit... here comes round... what was it... nineteen?" whispered Greg.

Armando played it cool.

"Nothing, just making small talk. Telling him about our background. How we share a condo on Saturn and how beautiful the rings of Uranus are when the sun is setting. Just that kind of stuff."

Bob wasn't fooled this time.

"You've been playing me, haven't you?" Bob took the gun out of his waistband and pointed it at Armando, "From the start." The taller man stood up slowly, sighing as he did so.

"Why would I do that?" he asked quietly.

"Stay away!" Bob yelled, his features were twisted into an ugly look. Something flitted in his eyes. Fear?

He cocked the gun and the taller man stopped, raising his hands so Bob could see he had no weapon.

"Tell me; why would I play you?" he asked again.

Bob faultered, lowering the gun a few inches, and the still-masked man started walking again. When he was three feet away, he held out one hand.

"Give me the gun," he said quietly.

As if those were the magic words, Bob leapt back and resumed his glare.

"No," he said defiantly.

As Greg watched the situation unfold, he broke into a cold sweat. What was going to happen?

"You're acting like a child," Armando observed, "What are you going to do, shoot me? If so, then by all means, do it. I was going to do it at the end of all this anyway." The taller man spread his arms out to his sides, giving Bob a clear target.

The shorter man lowered his gun completely, a look of disbelief on his face.

"Why?" he asked.

"'Why' what?" Armando replied, his eyes looking depressed.

"Why would you shoot yourself at the end?"

"Because there is no way that we're getting out of this without going to prison," he said gently, then his voice hardened, "and I, for one, would rather die than go back there"

* * *

Nick, Grissom and Sara reached the crime scene faster than they had ever reached one before. 

The SUV was still smoking lightly, but the fire had been put out long ago. There was a fifty-by-fifty foot area had been roped off and a group of rubber neckers had already gathered to snoop around. Five patrol cars sat around the aera, lights flashing. As the trio apprached, a slightly pudgy detective met them halfway.

"Brass," Grissom nodded.

The cop wasted no time on introductions.

"We recovered the detonation device in the hood of the car and surprisingly, one of my guys found something in the street that you missed."

"Why is that so surprising?" asked Grissom, "Cops can do that."

"It's surprising because it wasn't as char broiled like you guys," Brass said with a smirk.

"Take us to it then," said Grissom. Jim Brass led the three of them to the side of the road where it was seperated from everything else.

"Look, " he said.

They looked down. At first glance all of them could tell that it didn't belong to anyone on the scene.

A small, 6-chambered hand gun. The handle was blackened, as was the metal the rest of it was made of.

"I'm surprised the two of you didn't catch it," Brass raised an eyebrow at Nick and Grissom.

"We had other things to worry about at the time," said Grissom, "Sara, I want you to bag that. Be careful not to smudge any of the black off."

He knew it could be a dead end if any of it was smeared. There could be fingerprints hiding beneath the black film. If they were wpied away, they could lose their only chance to find Greg.

Cautiously, Sara picked up the gun by the handle and placed it in the bag, making sure nothing was smeared. Then, slowly, she wrapped the bag around it and put it in her kit.  
God willing -- and with a lot of luck -- they would get a hit off this.

* * *

About twenty minutes later, Armandohad successfully managed to calm his friend down. Bob refused to give up his gun, but had tucked it reluctantly back into his waistband.

The taller man deemed it safe enough to sit down and continue reading, while Bob subjected Greg to yet another beating. He felt one of his few remaining ribs crack on impact and he'd had just about enough.

"Untie me and see if you can still hit me like this!" he yelled, unable to comprehend what he was saying.

His answer was just a blow to his face, sure to leave an impressive bruise... if he lived long enough for it to bruise, anyway.

Greg's phone had vibrated a few times in the past couple hours, but of course, he'd been unable to answer it.

The time had to be going on two o'clock in the morning by now. If he craned his neck at the right angle, Greg could see the clock on the VCR. His estimate in time was almost correct. The clock read 2:15 am.

And suddenly, Bob stopped, still bristling with absolute rage.

"I may take you up on that offer later, Greg," he said, and walked away.

Greg let his head hang and tried to push himself a little more upright. His hands had lost circulation from being bent double like this. His broken and cracked ribs protested as his aching spine straightened.

He took an experimental deep breath and immediately started hacking when a bone poked at his lung.

"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" he asked no one in particular.

All the same, there was still a reply.

"Probably. Just tell him what you remember and see what happens," Armando suggested, eyes not leaving his book.

"I've seen his face. He's not going to let me go"

"Who told you that?" "Standard rules of abduction," Greg gasped out, wincing at the pain in his chest, "As long as you don't see your captor's faceses, you always have a chance"

Armando turned a page.

"Not all of us follow the rules, Greg," he said, "I've still got my mask on, so think of it as... having half a chance"

"Half a chance. Great." Greg didn't mean to sound sarcastic, and he didn't have the energy to tell Armando that it wasn't how he meant it.

"Better than nothing," the kidnapper replied.

Greg desperately wanted to scream in frustration, but instead he just concentrated on pulling air into his damaged lungs.

* * *

Back at the lab, Sara pulled out the wrapped, blackened gun.

She had gotten a lift back to the lab from one of the cops at the scene, by order of Jim Brass.

Sara set the gun carefully on top of the bag and grabbed a small, clear tank off the counter behind her. She filled the bottom with a couple inches of water and set it in front of her.

"Okay... Where is it...?" she muttered digging through on of the lab's desk drawers, "Hah, got it"

Her hand, still twinging a little, brought out a small cylindrical container containing a light blue powder.

Sara unscrewed the lid and drinkled a couple tablespoons into the water. It dissolved quickly, leaving the water clear.

She picked the gun up off the counter and placed it inside the tank, where the solution immendiately took effect.

The black film on the metal started to fade away, leaving the water slightly darker than it had been before. She turned the gun over and that side was cleaned quickly as well.  
She took the gun out, let it air dry for a few minutes, then tied a piece of fishing line into a loop and strung it up inside the fume container. Sara flipped it on and watched the gas cloud the clear walls.

After ten miunutes, she hit the latch that opened a vent in the back. The fumes cleared out, leaving a sour scent that faded quickly. She walked around the tank, looking closely at the gun. Then she grinned.

It looked like they'd had a bit of luck after all.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_ I am SOOOO sorry about the delay, please don't kill me. I've become obsessed with this thing and this was a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long chapter in the notbook it was in. Almost 20 pages. I don't think the next on is quite as long though, so it might be up faster. This story IS finished though. I swear to the fan fiction gods, it is. I just have issues typing it. I also have ADD and the majority of the time, I wasn't on my meds that halp me concentrate... Ugh... Sorry guys!  
Please review! I really appreciate them. It may not seem like it, but they really spur me on to write the next chapter.

So, click that little purple button!


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter Nine – In the Middle of Nowhere**_

**_Author's Notes:_** Once again, I apologize for my lack of motivation in the writing and typing out of a chapter.

**_Disclaimer:_** I own nothing, but I am thinking of contacting Jerry Bruckheimer and buying them all.

_**Thanks to everyone. As I'm typing this out at school, I can't thank everyone individually, like I normally do. But I appreciate every review you guys have thrown at this pathetic piece of crap!**_

**_

* * *

_**

Back at the crime scene, amid flashing red, white and blue lights of the cop cars, Nick was questioning various people as to what they saw earlier.

"I saw this flash of orange light, you know man?" said a Mexican man. His accent was thick enough to be comical. "And the ground just started… rumbling, man! I know, huh! (he had turned to his friend behind him who said something in Spanish) I'm getting to that! – and saw these two guys just flying – literally _flying_, man – down de driveway! Oh, man! It looked like something straight out of a movie, dude!"

"Okay, sir. Thank you," Nick said, although it hadn't really helped at all. (Personally, Nick thought the man was rather dense, as Nick was standing right in front of him, covered with small cuts and minor burns.)

"Did you see a younger man earlier today?" He should have come in that car (Nick pointed to the smoldering remains of the SUV). We have reason to believe that he's missing."

"No, man. Dinin't see nothin' like that," he replied, "I heard some yelling over there though." The man looked thoughtful. "Some dude yelling 'ow' or something. Then he was all like, 'Oh, what'd you do that for!' or some shit like that. Sounded like a fight to me, man. Then a car door slammed and it peeled out."

Nick looked at the man incredulously.

"And you didn't get up to check what was going on?"

The Mexican man laughed now.

"Hell no, dude! My girl came over 'round that time and we got freaky man! I just heard that guy out there, yelling."

"Thank you," Nick finished writing down what the man had said and then walked back over to Brass and Grissom.

"Got anything?" his boss asked.

"Not much," he replied, "The guy I just finished talking to said that he _heard_ Greg outside his window and it sounded like a fight."

"Is that all?" Grissom's face seemed to darken.

"Oh, and he saw a couple if guys _flying – literally **flying**_ down the driveway," Nick mimicked the accent and a ghost of a smile passed across Grissom's face.

The familiar tune to 'The Ants Go Marching Two By Two' rang out of Grissom's pocket just then.

"New ringer, nice."

His boss threw him a look that was a cross between a sneer and a smirk before pulling his phone out.

"Grissom," he answered.

"_Hey, Gris. Tell me you love me," _it was Sara.

"Tell me you got something."

"_I'd say. Partial on the handle and a whole, undamaged thumbprint on the barrel."_

"Who is it?"

"_Andrew Gordon. In prison for five years for domestic violence. Released on good behavior. He's still on parole. Current residence: 4842 Desert Drive."_

"Sara Sidle, I love you," Grissom told her, and then hung up the phone.

He turned to Nick, "Car. Now."

Grissom sprinted to his SUV with Nick close behind.

"Did she get it?" he asked, "Tell me she got something."

"Oh, she got something, all right."

The drove off with the patrol cars following.

* * *

Nick and Grissom reached Andrew Gordon's home in record time. They waited for the cop cars to pull up and then made their way to the front door.

The two CSIs waited on the porch while the police drew their guns.

One of the older cops, Officer Allens, put his back against the wall next to the door and tapped on it with his gun.

"Mister Gordon, open the door! This is the police!" he called.

There was no answer from inside.

The officer repeated himself, louder this time.

There was still no answer.

"Mister Gordon, if you do not open this door or your own free will, we will be forced to break it down!"

Again, no answer.

The cops and CSIs all looked at each other and nodded.

Officer Allens stood in front of the door and let loose with a front kick that splintered it open.

The rest of the police dashed inside, guns at the ready. They fanned out, leaving the Nick and Grissom in the entrance way hall.

A few minutes later, after a lot of banging around and shouting, Allens came back with a grim look.

"All clear, no one's home," he said.

Nick swore loudly, gaining a look of surprise from Allens and a frown from Grissom.

"Sorry," he muttered darkly.

"There's a note on the kitchen table," said the cop. "Go check it out."

Grissom switched his kit to his other hand and nodded for Nick to follow him.

The entrance hall led to the kitchen, and the other rooms branched off from that. Just as the officer said; there was a note on the table. The yellowish paper stood out against the otherwise bare mahogany.

Grissom pulled a latex glove out of his vest and snapped it on, then picked up the paper.

'_Mom, _

_Went to the cabin with Damon. Call you later._

_Love,_

_Drew'_

He put the paper back on the table, his face expressionless.

"Okay, so we know he's with a guy named Damon…" Nick repeated, going over the contents in his head.

He checked his watch. 3:45 am.

"Where could the mom be this late?" he wondered.

"Hey, Nick , you wanna check the caller ID? He may have already called."

Grissom put the note in a manila envelope and put it into his kit. They would check for prints later.

The Texan walked over the phone, pulling a glove of his own on. He picked up the white cordless and hit the 'back' arrow button.

"The last call occurred at 1:29 am from the number (284) 555-2284," Nick read the information back.

"Good. We'll get the phone records and trace it," Grissom replied.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!" someone behind them screeched, "GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

The pair of CSIs spun around to see a short, pudgy old red-headed woman coming at them, brandishing a large purple purse as a deadly weapon. (me, in fifty years…)

One of the younger cops grabbed her around the waist to hold her back. She was swinging wildly with her bag, hitting shelves, toppling little porcelain figurines on the counters. She continued yelling, trying to get loose.

"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!" Each scream was punctuated by a swing of her purse. She finally succeeded in hitting the officer holding her in the head. He looked dazed, but he didn't let go of her.

"Ms. Gordon?" Grissom called over her screaming, "We're here about Andrew!"

The woman immediately calmed down. Her hysterical manner was replaced by a wary one.

"What _about_ my son?" she demanded, "And _you_! (she snarled at the cop holding her) Let me go!"

"Do you promise not to attack us?" Nick fought to keep from laughing.

"Yeah, sure, now make him let go."

Nick nodded at the officer, who released her cautiously. He turned around and caught Grissom's eye, who was also fighting a mad grin.

"Come on. Into the living room," Ms. Gordon shouldered her way past them and led the way.

They followed her into the cluttered family room, sitting down on the lumpy green couch while she took the big red recliner.

"My name is Gil Grissom, and this is Nick Stokes. We're with the crime lab and we have a few questi -- ," the senior supervisor said.

"What about my son?" she demanded, getting right to the point.

"We think he's involved with something he shouldn't be," Grissom replied vaguely.

"Ms. Gordon, did you receive a cal from his earlier this evening?" asked Nick.

"Yes, around one thirty or so. Why?"

"Okay, where were you after that? It seems kind of late to be out, doesn't it?" Grissom asked her.

"Oh, I was at the Pink Flamingo, having a few drinks," the woman twisted a strand of frizzy red hair around a finger, smiling flirtatiously at Grissom.

"Alone?"

"No," the woman replied, as if it were obvious, "I was with friends. They dance there. After an hour or so, they had to get back to work, so we had one last shot and we left. I got a ride with Vicky because Andrew borrowed my car."

"Around what time was this?" asked Grissom, "What time did Andrew borrow the car?"

The woman thought for a moment, etching her pudgy features with frown lines.

"Probably around eleven. Twelve maybe. I don't know."

"Okay."

"You forgot to ask me where the cabin is. I noticed my son's note was gone," Ms. Gordon rolled her eyes.

"I was just going to get to that," Grissom smiled.

"Well, it's all the way out in Reno. Middle of nowhere. He goes there a lot with Damon," she put a thoughtful finger to her lips, "Although, now that I think about it, Damon _did_ get out of prison awfully early. Must have been good behavior. He's such _nice_ boy. Known him since he was just little."

Nick's heart was thudding painfully in his chest. They were so close to finding Greg. He fought to stay calm.

"Ms. Gordon, did your son say anything about what he was going to do there?" Nick forced his voice to remain steady.

"I think he said he and Damon were meeting another friend there. Craig Sssssomething. I don't remember his last name."

Grissom's face was still expressionless.

"Ma'am, this is very important. Do you give us permission to enter the cabin if there is no answer at the door?" he asked very clearly. His face was blank, but his voice conveyed anxiety… even fear.

"Don't you need a warrant for that?" she asked doubtfully, "I saw that on TV."

"We don't have time for a warrant. We may be too late as it is. The other friend may already be dead by the time we get there."

"Go then. It takes time enough to get there without that mess. The cabin's in my name and I'll give you permission to enter it," she looked past them and at the police officers standing in the hallway, "Did you guys hear that? You're witnesses, all of you. I give them permission to enter!"

The other officers smiled and nodded, no longer afraid of the psychotic woman.

They stood to leave, but Ms. Gordon swiped the little notebook out of Nick's vest pocket. The Texan made a startled grab for it, but missed.

She pulled the pen out of the spiral and flipped to a clean page, where she began scribbling something down.

Nick glanced at Grissom, who merely raised an eyebrow.

"Here," she said, tossing the little book and pen back," Directions to get you there faster. The phone number is there too."

"Thank you," said Grissom, meaning it from the bottom of his heart. He began towards the kitchen.

"And Mr. Grissom?"

He turned around to see her sitting in the chair with a look of motherly rage on her face.

"When you find Andrew, be sure to tell him –from me -- that he's in **_BIIIIIIIIIG_** trouble."

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_** Wow, for some reason, this was a real bitch to type out. I only have a half hour at lunch to type and this was somewhere around 10 – 11 pages. So I'm very sorry about the delay.

Remember, **_PLEASE THE FANFICTION GODS! OFFER THEM YOUR REVIEWS!_**


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter Ten -- Middle of Nowhere**_

DEDICATED TO: **_FaithfulPureLight_**, FOR SHOVING MY ASS BACK INTO THE CHAIR TO WRITE MORE!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing. Shut up.

THANKS TO:  
simple-plan0918  
lil'spencefan !  
X3jordanface

And thanks to everyone else I let down by almost abandoning this monstrosity. Lol. I apologize the for obnoxious delay.

* * *

Greg was panting heavily. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs. Pain invaded his chest every time he tried to take a breath. His head swam and little black dots passed before his eyes. Blood from his nose made his lips wet and coppery and he was pretty sure he was bleeding to death from the inside out. 

He'd stopped speaking long ago, lacking the energy.

"Am I jogging any memories yet?" Bob demanded, pistol-whipping Greg across the temple.

The worst part was that Greg remembered the case AND the evidence that put him away, but he couldn't get enough air into his lungs to answer. He nodded, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his neck.

"Tell me who I am," the man hissed, getting into his face.

"Grene," gasped Greg, his eyes prickling with tears when his ribs seemed to stretch. "Damon… Grene."

"What a good boy!" Damon socked him in the stomach, "What did I do?"

Greg let out a cough, spraying blood on Damon's shoes and earning another blow to the face.

"R-rape," he croaked, "Murder… abduction…"

"You have a good memory," said Damon, softly, kneeling in front of the younger man, "Tell me this: What evidence put me away?"

The DNA tech took another rasping breath.

"Fingerprints."

"And"

"DNA."

"And what else?"

"Eyewitnesses…" Greg replied, a vicious grin starting to appear on his bloodied face, "You were sloppy… one of the easiest catches."

An ugly look stole over Damon's scarred face. His features twisted into an expression of rage. It was terrifying to watch and have no way of escaping.

"Why you…" His voice was deadly quiet, "You know you're going to pay for that…"

Damon lost it and began to beat every part of Greg he could reach worse than before.

"Damon! Give it a rest already!" Armando snapped, "I'm trying to read! It's kind of hard to do that when with you yelling at him and his grunting every time you hit him! TAKE A BREAK!"

'Consider your asses haunted if you don't find me,' was Greg's last conscious thought before passing out.

* * *

He woke up in more pain than he could have ever imagined, laying face-down on a hard wooden floor in a puddle of his own blood. He heard voices. 

"They're right outside! I told you we weren't going to make it out!" said Armando.

"Then get your gun because we're not going down without a fight, Andrew," said Damon.

There was a rustle of clothing, then swearing.

"It's gone."

"What the hell do you mean, 'it's gone'!"

"Say it again. It means that my gun is NOT here. I must have lost it when we grabbed Sanders."

Greg didn't open his eyes. He heard sirens coming closer, but his sluggish mind didn't really comprehend the sound.

"I can't take them all on my own," Damon sighed in frustration.

The sirens grew louder. Greg dragged his left arm up, gasping at the additional discomfort it caused. He pulled up his wrist to look at his watch. 7:45 am.

He'd been unconscious for somewhere around six hours… and he was still alive? He couldn't believe it. There was a strip of raw, bloody skin below his watch where he'd been tied.

Greg could see flashing lights in reflected in his own blood through the window. The sirens grew louder still. His eyes opened wide in realization, tears filled them, but they didn't fall .

"They found me…" he murmured to himself.

* * *

"Okay guys, remember, approach with extreme caution!" Brass yelled, "The kidnappers will probably use Greg as a human shield." 

The police officers to whom Brass was speaking nodded. The detective stepped onto the porch drawing his gun. He knocked hard on the door.

"Andrew Gordon and Damon Grene! Open the door now or we will break it down!" he yelled.

Nick's heart thudded so hard in his chest, he was afraid that Grissom would hear it.

'Finally,' thought Nick, 'We're getting him back.'

The two CSIs were forced to wait behind a patrol car while Brass and the cops covered the scene.

* * *

"Andrew Gordon and Damon Grene! Open the door now or we will break it down!" 'Brass!' the recognition hit him hard. His eyes widened. 

"Hey look! Sanders is awake!" Damon exclaimed gleefully. "Come on! Get him up in front of the window. We'll use him as a bargaining chip!"

"Damon…" Andrew said quietly.

"And if it doesn't work, we'll just kill him -- "

"Damon!" Andrew interrupted loudly.

"What?" demanded Damon, hauling Greg up, who moaned in agony as his ribs ground together.

He shoved the young man's bloody face against the window, pointing the gun at the back of his head.

Greg saw, in amazement, six cop cars with the police running around to surround the place. His eyes traveled -- and his heart skipped a few beats -- they landed on Brass. Moving them along, he saw Nick and Grissom.

Suddenly, nothing was more important than getting out. There was hope now that he could cling to. Greg struggled against Damon, gaining nothing.

"Damon, knock it off!" yelled Andrew. "It's not going to work!"

The shorter man let go of Greg, who fell back to the floor with a grunt and a soft cry. He writhed for a moment, trying anything to relieve some of the pressure on his chest. Damon spun around to face his friend.

"Then what do you propose we do, eh, smart guy?"

"I'm not going to jail again," Andrew said firmly, a note of fear in his voice. The next time he spoke, he sounded like his mind was made up. "I'd rather _die_ before I went back"

* * *

"Oh my god, Grissom, look!" Nick hissed, elbowing the older man in the side. 

In the dimly lit cabin, they could see the two kidnappers looking out the window. A tall man and a short one.

The taller one wore a black ski mask, while the other man did not. They appeared to be arguing, then the shorter man looked down at something, smiled and bent down, out of their sights.

When the man came back up, he was dragging a familiar face by the neck. He shoved Greg against the window and everyone could see his face contort in pain. The next thing they saw horrified them even more: the shorter man shoved a gun at the back of Greg's head.

"Damn it…" Grissom muttered, twisting his hands. "Go! Go! Go!"

As if these were the magic words, Brass echoed them and all the cops leapt into action.

The officer the CSIs met before, Jake Allens, had his foot raised and kicked the door in. The officer rushed in, followed by three others.

Shots rang out, then Damon and Andrew sprinted outside, one of them carrying a seemingly unconscious Greg slung over one shoulder. There were more cops outside than there were inside and the shorter man, in a panic, raised his gun and began firing wildly. The taller man flung Greg to the ground and made an attempt to stop him.

Then they both stopped. The shorter man wrenched his arm out of his friend's grasp and pointed his gun at Greg's unmoving body.

Nick yelled something he would later never remember and shot forward. Damon looked up in surprise to see the Texan coming barreling at him and wit Hough thinking, he raised the gun to Nick's chest and fired.  
**_

* * *

Author's Notes:_**

Wow that took a long time to type. I know I on't deserve them, but please review! 


	11. Chapter 11

_**In the Middle of Nowhere - Chapter Eleven**_

**_Author's Notes:_** I am SOOOOOO sorry that I left everyone hanging! I just recently discovered a substance that leaves me in a fun little stupor and I sort of quit writing for a while! It turns out that Misile's reviews (along with others) spurred me on. So thanks!

**_Disclaimer:_** Again, I own nothing.

* * *

Nick fell to the ground, landing hard on his back and was engulfed in pain. There was suddenly an incredible amount of pressure on his chest, making him gasp for every breath. He rolled onto his stomach and instinctively covered his head with his hands when another two shots rang out. 

He looked up in time to see Damon fall to the ground in a spurt of red. A second later, Andrew hit the ground as well, bleeding from the left side. From the blank look and eerie stillness, Nick could tell he was dead. Andrew, on the other hand, was a different story. He lay on the ground, holding his bleeding flank, moaning and writhing.

And then everyone exploded into action. Cops were running around and there was a lot of yelling. A rough hand on Nick's shoulder flipped him onto his back easily. He was looking up into Grissom's worried face. Concern melted into anger in record setting time when he saw Nick was okay.

"What were you thinking!" Grissom yelled, an edge to his voice.

Automatically, Nick winced and inched away.

"You could have been _killed_! You could have gotten _Greg _killed! What could have possessed you to do something so _stupid_!" demanded Grissom, his hands were flying around the vicinity of his face in a mixture of fear and anger.

The Texan sat up with difficulty, ignoring his boss for the time being. He scrambled to his feet and ran to Greg, falling to his knees next to him. His heart pounded in his chest, there was a rushing sound in his ears and his hands shook when he looked at his friend's bloodied, battered and bruised face. His eyes were closed tightly.

"Come on, man, wake up, Greg-o," Nick murmured, and he wasn't surprised to hear his voice breaking.

The paramedics shifted the young man onto his back and straightened his arms and legs so he was in a prone position.

"I knew you'd find me," came his weak voice. One eye cracked open and he groaned softly. "But I was seriously considering haunting you guys."

Greg tried to smile, but winced when his split lips protested. Then he passed out cold. Nick's heart seemed to skip a few beats.

"Greg? Greg!" he called, fighting the impulse to shake him.

"We'll take him from here, sir," one of the paramedics said, helping the others put Greg on the gurney. "You need to get yourself checked out now."

"Nick," said a voice, but it seemed too far away to answer.

_'"Haunt you guys",'_ thought Nick, numbly. _'He thought he was going to die?'_

The Texan watched as they lifted the gurney and wheeled it to the ambulance. They did the same for Andrew, who was no longer moaning in pain, but was simply laying on the gurney looking at the night sky with a blank expression on his face. A cop placed a sheet over Damon's body, covering his head.

Nick lunged to his feet with a snarl, staggering over to the kidnapper, hell-bent on inflicting as much harm on him as he possibly could. When he was almost two feet away from Andrew, an arm encircled his waist and neck from behind and stopped him short.

He turned to see Grissom's face, red with effort, over his shoulder.

"Let me go!" Nick hissed at him, struggling. "I just -- need --"

"Nick, calm down!" Grissom grunted when the Texan tried to twist away. "If you hurt him, it won't solve anything!"

"Yeah, but it'll make everyone else feel better!" Nick's face was beginning to redden from lack of air from the pressure on his neck.

"Don't make me put you on probation!" threatened the senior CSI, tightening his hold.

Nick gagged at the force against his throat and finally began to still. Only when he seemed completely calm did Grissom release him. Nick spun around to face him. Before he could speak, however, Grissom cut him off.

"Come on, and don't even argue," The older man gave him a stern look that was not to be questioned. He began walking. "I know you're upset. We all are, but we have Greg back and we have the bad guy, so cool it."

Nick, clenching his fists so hard, his nails cut into his fleshy palms and knuckles were white, and followed his boss in a stony silence. His entire body was shaking and he was suddenly aware of a pounding ache in his chest where he'd been hit.

Grissom led him to an empty ambulance as the one carrying Greg roared away towards Desert Palms hospital. The other, carrying Andrew, followed. The older man pushed him down onto the bumper and called for a doctor. There was one by them almost instantaneously.

"Take off the shirt," she said, in a no nonsense voice.

He did as he was told, taking the Kevlar vest underneath off as well as his white undershirt.

"You were lucky to have been wearing one of these things," she said, checking the already visible bruise above Nick's toned abs.

"Sure," he replied, not paying attention.

When the doctor was done working on Nick, Grissom led his CSI back to the car and they got in.

"Call the rest of the team and let them know that Greg's being taken to Desert Palms Hospital," Grissom ordered, starting the SUV.

Nick did as he was told, no questions asked. In no time, he'd called Catherine and she relayed the news. The team would meet them there.

They drove in silence for a while. Nick shifted in his seat uncomfortably in his seat, thinking of the way he'd behaved.

"Um, listen, Gris, I'm sorry about the way I acted. It was just… I felt like I needed to hurt him for what he did to Greg… He…" Nick couldn't go on without feeling ripped between wanting to tear something apart and breaking down in relieved sobs.

"It's okay, Nicky. I understand what you felt like," said Grissom.

* * *

At the hospital, Sara, Warrick, and Catherine were already waiting to be allowed to see Greg. 

The doors burst open and Grissom and Nick strode in, looking worse for the wear.

"Are you guys all right?" Catherine asked, "Nicky they said you were shot!"

"Just bruised, Don't worry," Nick replied. "Have you seen him yet?"

Warrick shook his head, "Only on the way in. They rushed him straight into the ER followed by the another guy."

"Andrew Gordon," Grissom told him. "One of the kidnappers."

"He looked so…" Sara couldn't finish and her eyes filled with tears.

"I know, Sara," said Grissom. "But you did a great job tracing the gun."

They sat down in the room labeled 'Family Only'.

The only thing they could do now was wait and pray…  
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- **_Author's Notes:_** Wow, everyone thank you for reading this and thank you all for your reviews!


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter Twelve - In the Middle of Nowhere**_

**_Author's Notes: _**Sorry about the wait! Thanks for reviewing! I love you all!!

**_Disclaimer:_** I own nothing. Stfu. L

* * *

It was into the late morning by the time the CSI team was allowed to see Greg. The clock said 10:45am.

Catherine had fallen asleep, using Warrick's thigh as a pillow. The man had also fallen asleep. Sara hadn't quite managed to drop off yet. She was only dozing and fighting hard against that too. Nick and Grissom, however, were wide awake, but they started when the door to the Family Only room cracked open and a tall, female doctor walked in.

She looked to be in her late fifties, and her short brown hair was streaked with grey. Her nametag said Dr. Jones.

"Mr. Grissom?" she asked quietly, eyeing all the sleeping people.

The one in question nodded and stood up to shake her hand.

"Greg is awake now and asking for you and Mr. Stokes," she said. "Please follow me."

The two jumped to their feet as one, being very careful not to wake anyone, especially Sara, who'd finally lost her battle with Morpheus.

They followed Dr. Jones down the hall, listening to her explain the rules.

"One person at a time, and no more than five to ten minutes each," she was saying.

She was obviously a strict woman. Nick's first impression was one of his old high school teachers who, despite the new rules, would still slap students' hands with a ruler.

The doctor stopped at room 124.

"I'll be out here -- timing you," she told them.

They both nodded and Grissom went in first.

* * *

He heard the door open and then the voice of that doctor. Jonen... wasn't that her name? Something like that, anyway. He could barely think he was so drugged up on painkillers right now.

Greg closed his eyes. It was the only thing on his body he thought he could control. Everything else either felt like lead or he just didn't have the energy to move it.

On the bright side. . . He couldn't feel any pain.

The lab tech felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched violently, attempting to smother an involuntary gasp.

"Greg?" he heard Grissom's voice ask.

Greg opened his eyes with difficulty. They landed, unfocused, on his boss standing over him.

"Hey," his voice came out as a hoarse whisper. "Guess I messed things up pretty good, huh?"

"What? No! You got the guys, Greg! You did fine," Grissom exclaimed.

"I heard you got them."

Grissom avoided Greg's eyes for a moment, then came back.

"I'm sorry, Greg," he said finally. "I shouldn't have sent you out alone."

The former tech shifted uncomfortably in his bed, trying to relieve the pressure on his back and evade looking at Grissom. It was the apology that got him so embarrassed.

"It's, um, okay," Greg chuckled weakly. "As long as this doesn't happen _every_ time, we're cool."

Grissom, smiled slightly and ruffled the younger CSI's brown hair. He suddenly became frantic at the touch, like someone who remembers something important at the last minute.

"Is Nick all right?" he asked, his voice getting high pitched.

Greg struggled to sit up. The heart monitor began beeping wildly. Pain began to make it's way back onto the young man's face and Grissom could see it.

"Greg, I need you to calm down," the supervisor tried to reason, but Greg was having none of it.

"Grissom, I saw him shot! Is he okay? Please tell me he's okay!" he pleaded.

"He's fine, I promise," replied Grissom, pushing the CSI back down on the bed. "He's just outside the room."

But Greg wouldn't be calmed. Not until Nick came through the door.

"Hey, Greggo," he said casually, smiling at him.

"God, Nick…" he sighed, leaning back against the pillows, breathing hard. "Are you all right?"

"Yep. Just bruised," Nick pulled the neck of his shirt down to reveal a large, purple forming on the center of his chest.

The heartbeat monitor started to slow down, giving off steady beeps.

"I saw you fall and thought the worst," Greg breathed.

The Texan let go of his shirt collar, letting it spring back into place. Then he took a long look at his friend.

Greg's lower lip was stitched, as well as a deep gash under his left eye. A butterfly bandage held a small cut over his right eyebrow. There were bandages around his wrist where the handcuffs had rubbed the flesh raw and bleeding. Though Nick couldn't see it, he was sure there were even more bruises on Greg's torso.

The doctors had operated on him, stitching him up where it was needed. They had been some internal bleeding as well as a nearly punctured rib. Nick suppressed a shudder.

"As if sludge like _that_ could take _us_ down," he grinned.

His grin was returned and Greg's smile actually reached his eyes.

"I'm going to have to ask one of you to leave now," came another voice.

"Sorry, Dr. Jones," Nick replied, a bit sheepishly, embarrassed to have been caught breaking the rules.

The Texan gave his friend a wink and walked out of the room. A minute passed before his head poked back in.

"You want me to tell everyone else you're awake?" asked Nick.

Greg looked at Grissom.

"Everyone… As in--"

"Sara, Catherine, Warrick?" Yeah," he interrupted.

"Hey, don't forget Brass. He just showed up," said Nick.

"Yeah, tell them I'm up," Greg replied, still in wonderment.

"Although I don't think G.I. Jones is going to let them all in -- What? Ow!" Nick laughed when Dr. Jones slapped him on the shoulder good naturedly. "I'm going! I'm going! See? I'm gone! Back to the waiting room!"

"She kinda reminded of my old Home Ec teacher, Ms. Bockbrader," Greg laughed, the groaned when it agitated his ribs. "Even looks like her."

Grissom and Greg talked for a few more minutes before there was another knock on the door. It opened and the entire CSI team walked through it.

The former lab tech choked a little to see everyone come in looking so worried and happy to have him back. It was almost overwhelming.

"One of my other patients needs me. They can stay, Mr. Sanders, ("That's my dad. I'm Greg," he interrupted.) only if you keep them under control," said the older woman, her eyes twinkling.

Greg grinned as wide as he could without tearing the stitches on his lip, "Yes, ma'am."

When she ducked out of the room, everyone started talking at once.

"Man, you really gave us a scare," Warrick was saying.

"Lucky one of them dropped his gun at the scene --"

"-- were so scared, Greg! We thought --"

Despite all the talking and commotion, Greg could feel his eyelids drooping from the meds. He fought it as hard as he could.

"You guys are going to get kicked out for being so loud," murmured Greg, fighting to keep his eyes open.

"We're glad we have you back, Greg," was the last thing he heard before drifting off.

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**_Author's Notes:_** Okay, who saw it last night? Who saw Greg get beat up? I almost died… (I TiVo'd it and I'm gonna watch it again though. )

Anyway, the next one is going to be the almighty FINIS!! So sad::cries::. Well, go onto it then! Don't sit here watching lil old me blubbering!


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter Thirteen -- In the Middle of Nowhere**_

**_Disclaimer:_** I own nothing. Doy. (Pop Tarts and Silly String included)

**_Author's Notes:_** Well, here you are, the final chapter.

* * *

Almost two weeks later, Greg was out of the hospital and at home. There was always someone staying with him. Tonight, it was Warrick. 

Greg had begun having nightmares, in which he was running down long, dark corridors away from bad guys who were chasing him. These dreams would often wake him with a yell or jerk and in a cold sweat.

His cuts and bruises had faded but his broken ribs still twinged a bit from time to time, but overall, Greg was feeling great. He was more than ready to get back to work tomorrow.

He got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.. He glanced at his reflection and once again, had to stop to take a second look. It still shocked him a little, what with the new scars. Sara said that they made him look tough (he'd blushed at that remark). Greg also had the smallest of scars on his back, where that damned tire iron caught him. _That_ twinged quite a lot, but Dr. Jones, who'd stayed on his case, assured him that the pain would fade. Until then, she had told him, 'Just take a Tylenol or two a day.'

Which was what he'd been doing. Even on a day where his back didn't hurt, he'd thought about taking one a day. Aside from helping his body, they made him feel generally healthy. He'd have to ask Dr. Jones about it the next time he saw her.

Greg quickly rubbed the towel through his hair and grinned at the way it stuck up wildly at different angles.

One thing he'd missed most while at the hospital was his hair gel. The moment he was able to get up on his own, he had asked Nick to grab his own gel from his home.

Greg quickly got dressed and went out to his living room, where he found Warrick watching an old rerun of _MacGyver _with several unopened boxes of Chinese food and a bag of egg rolls.

Another thing that Greg had discovered while someone was staying with him was every night was how differently his friends liked to eat.

Warrick liked Chinese, Nick liked Italian, Sara introduced him to some very odd Indian food, Catherine grabbed some Burger King and Grissom brought some awesome Mexican food he said he made himself.

"Chicken fried rice, General Tao's, or sweet and sour?" Warrick asked as Greg dropped onto the couch.

"Um… Fried rice," he replied.

Greg took the carton Warrick handed to him, broke apart a pair of chopsticks and began eating.

"How can you watch this?" he asked thickly, after a moment.

Warrick threw him a look, "I like it, and you were in the shower."

Greg rolled his eyes and set down his food. He got up and went to the kitchen for something to drink.

"You want anything?" he called, pouring himself a glass of lemon-lime soda.

"Whatever you're having," Warrick replied.

Carrying two glasses of soda, Greg returned to the living room. He set one down in front of Warrick and the other in front of himself.

After his healthy meal of chicken fried rice, Greg, feeling drowsy as he normally did on a full stomach, decided to go to bed.

"Night, Warrick," he said, stifling a yawn. "If you need anything, you know where to look."

Warrick nodded and said good night.

In the bathroom, Greg brushed his teeth. After that, he staggered to his bedroom and without even pulling the covers back he collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

"Hey, wake up."

Greg groaned and rolled over. Right of the side of the bed. He let out a yell and landed with a heavy thud.

Pain lanced through his chest and back. He let out another groan and eased himself all the way onto the floor.

"I gotta stop doing that…" he exhaled sharply, putting a hand to his ribs.

"Greg, you okay?" asked Warrick's voice from somewhere above him.

"Oh yeah. Never better," he replied, struggling to sit up.

There was pounding coming from below them.

"Greggy! Are you alright?" came the muffled voice of an old sounding lady. It seemed to be coming from the vent next to the bed.

"I'm fine, Mrs. MacGowen!" he called into it.

"Did you fall out of bed again?"

"As always!"

"I have a bed liner-fency thing in storage if you want it, dear!" she yelled. "My daughter used it when she was five, but it's still good!"

Greg glanced up at Warrick, who was standing above him, shaking with silent fits of laughter.

"No, thank you, Mrs. MacGowen!"

"Okay, but if you change your mind, you just bang on the floor or something!"

"Okay, thank you!" Greg looked at Warrick again. "My neighbor," he explained.

"You fall outta bed often?" he asked, still smiling.

"Oh, only every other day or so," Greg sighed, getting to his feet. His chest and back still hurt from the fall, but he wasn't about to mention that little fact.

Warrick laughed again and left the bedroom shaking his head. Greg looked at the clock on his bed stand and let out a yelp. It was 5:45pm. Almost time for work.

"Why'd you wake me up so late?" he yelled out the door.

"You have time. Relax. Just get dressed," Warrick replied. "Just grab a Pop-Tart or something. We'll make it."

He tugged a lime-green shirt that said 'Stupidity is not a crime… you're free to go.' over his head and was stuck there for a moment. He yanked it down hard, wincing. That was followed by a pair of black cargo pants.

Greg finished getting dressed in record time, ran a quick handful of gel through his hair, smiled at the result and dashed out into the living room, where he found Warrick on the couch, calmly finishing his Chinese food.

"How come you get Chinese and all I get is a Pop Tart?" Greg grumbled, rummaging through the cupboard to grab one of the gleaming silver packets of goodness.

"Hey, I tried to wake you up before, but you didn't budge," Warrick smiled, emptying his carton and throwing it away. "You ready?"

"Yep," Greg ran a hand through his hair once more for good measure. "Let's go."

They reached the crime lab on time, despite Greg's insistence they wouldn't. The train tracks that frequently made Greg late were clear for once.

The pair walked slowly to the break room with a steady stream of people saying hello and how glad they were that Greg was back.

Greg and Warrick rounded the corner and an explosion of sound met them (Greg flinched, but recovered before anyone noticed), followed quickly by a mountain of confetti.

Before Greg could move, however, he was caught in a cocoon of rainbow silly string.

"Thanks for that," he said, spitting out a mouthful and grinning.

When he managed to get it out of his eyes, Greg saw everyone standing in front of him; Sara, Catherine, Nick, Doc Robbins, David, (even Grissom) were holding cans of silly string and they were all smiling.

Behind them all, there was a banner that said, "Welcome back, CSI Sanders!!" and on the table, there was a huge cake that said the same.

Tears blurred Greg's vision, brought on by their thoughtfulness.

"Aw, guys, thanks," he choked out, blinking them back.

Sara and Catherine moved in for a hug and led him to the table.

"You're not gonna stop _this_, are you, Grissom?" Greg grinned at his boss, who shook his head once, smiling.

"Not yet, Greg."

Someone switched on the CD player from the lab and the Offspring began to sing (to Grissom's distaste, but he dealt with it).

"Now we're talkin'," Greg head banged a couple times in tune to the music, then yelled over everyone's talking. "Now let's start on that cake!"

Fini

**_

* * *

Author's Notes: _**Wow, it's finally over. I can't believe it… I had a great time writing this and a great time reading all your reviews. They truly meant a lot to me. I enjoyed bullshitting my way through all the forensics and science. It was lots of fun. I hope people keep reading it (hint hint). 

I have another Greg-centric fic coming up called _'If You Can't Stand the Heat…'_ Read it. Review it. Love it.


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